Sherlock's Moving Castle
by SofiaLeith
Summary: Doctor Watson thought nothing of his ordinary day as he got up in the morning, tired as usual and bored as always. All days were the same, nothing changed, so what was there to think about? Not once did it cross his mind he would ever have the chance to meet the dangerous and, dare he say, fascinating wizard, Sherlock Holmes. Oh, poor John. If only he knew.
1. An Auspicious Meeting

**A/N: **I've seen a lot of fanart devoted to this crossover, so I decided to finally write it! I love BBC's Sherlock and adore almost all of Miyazaki's films, it seemed only logical to put these two amazing works together. That being said, I hope you enjoy reading Sherlock's Moving Castle as much as I enjoy writing it!

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Howl's Moving Castle.

**Chapter I: An Auspicious Meeting**

Hidden amongst clouds, at the top of a hill, a huge metal contraption squeaked and screeched, moving without any subtlety towards the nearby city. As it advanced, the soft summer wind blew the clouds away, allowing the world set their eyes on what was known as Sherlock's Castle.

'_It looks nothing like a castle'_, John thought, as his mind pushed forward the memory of it — the one time he was lucky enough to see it, not just create a mental picture based on other's accounts. It was huge, that he couldn't deny, but it was round in some places, pointy in others, like someone grabbed a bunch of scrap metal, construction material, some unidentifiable objects and glued it all together. He wondered what it was like on the inside.

Curious and bored, John couldn't resist taking a peek out his window. He could hear the girls at the reception exclaiming excitedly "It's Sherlock's castle!", "Look how close it is", and although he hated to admit, he was probably more enthusiastic about catching another glimpse of it than they were.

It looked just like he remembered, all metal plates and screws, pieces of wood, windows in weird places, odd chimneys that resembled eyes, something that could be a mouth and small, fragile-looking legs attached to creepy chicken-like metal feet. He chuckled, _'What a strange place to live'_.

'_Strange, yet wonderful'_ his more truthful side provided. John's house was as dull as his tiny medical office — probably because his house used to be an extension of the clinic, being so near it John only had to cross the courtyard to go from one place to the other. Wooden floor, plain beige walls, some basic furniture, and no wiry metal legs to take him whichever place he decided to go. He kept imagining what it was like to live inside something that actually _moved_, as if it had a life of its own.

He pondered on the logistics of it. Was there some sort of engine on the inside to help it keep going or was it controlled entirely by magic? Could it go anywhere Sherlock desired or were there limitations? What was it like, living like a gipsy, going from city to city, never stopping? Was it dangerous? Exciting? Perhaps both?

Okay, so the last questions weren't about logistics at all, but he couldn't help his curiosity. If he were truly honest to himself, he would admit dreaming about a life so amazing —somewhere far away from his problematic family, his tedious job and life in general, exploring the world around him. Oh, what a dream life it would be.

He was still smiling to himself when he heard a knock on his opened door, "Daydreaming about the sorcerer's castle, huh? Can't say I blame you, must be nice to travel wherever you want whenever the mood hits you." Said Mary, one of the clinic's nurses.

Clearing his throat and trying to stop the blush from rising to his cheeks, he turned in his chair and smiled sheepishly at her. "Well, one can always wonder, right?"

She was pretty with her light blonde hair, blue eyes shining with mirth and a pink mouth smiling just for him. She was nice too, kind with all patients, calm even amidst the worst of crisis and funny whenever they went out for a cuppa. They had been like this for a while: not quite friends, not quite anything else either. It's not that he doesn't want her; it's just that…he can see his entire life before him, just as it is now, and although it should be reassuring, it terrifies him.

He can easily see himself wake up day after day, go through his morning routine, walk to the clinic, see as many patients as possible, go home, be with his probable future wife, sleep and repeat the cycle. Nothing new or exciting, the same old forever. Just the thought of it made him shiver, dreading the whole thing altogether.

'_There's something seriously wrong with me._'

And it was with that thought and fears that he said "I think I'll pass, Mary. Still got a lot of medical reports to fill out" when she asked whether he wanted to "go out and get a cup of tea or something" with her. Disappointed but understanding, she nodded.

"Next time then."

"Yeah, sure." He answered, though he knew it was a lie. She knew it too. Lately, he had been avoiding her more often than not.

"Well, I'm going out with the girls then. Don't forget to close up when you leave, ok? Dr. Murray already left."

"Ok. See you tomorrow!" She stared at him, a sad look on her face, and he struggled not to look away.

"See you, John."

She turned and joined the other nurses and two of the receptionists, all of them still talking about the mysterious wizard. John got back to his reports, but he could still hear them, albeit faintly.

"Remember Magnussen, from South Haven?"

"They say Sherlock tore his heart out."

"How scary!"

"Don't worry, he's not going to want yours!" And they all laughed. '_Of course he wouldn't want hers'_, John mused. Sherlock was notoriously known for only going after those of high intellect and even higher connections. He was snobbish, rude and uncaring of other's feelings. He bothered not with beauty or money, only exceptional intelligence and power.

John had neither.

One by one the women left, and he stayed behind, as usual. He didn't remain there for long after that; it wasn't like he had too much work to do. Even if he did, he wouldn't stay late to finish it. He just didn't feel like joining Mary and was in desperate need of a good excuse. Work was a good one, though overused.

Sighing tiredly, he arranged everything on his desk, ignoring the world outside for as long as he could before he had to open the clinic's door and face it. There was some huge celebration going on, a parade of flying kayaks in the air and soldiers on the streets. John hated it. It reminded him too much of what he had and lost, and he dreaded meeting anyone from the King's Guard on the city.

On his way out he passed by a mirror — he had no idea why the girls refused to remove it. They said it was for protection or something of the sort. He seriously doubted it could protect any of them from anything but a piece of salad stuck in their teeth.

John glanced at his reflection. He was still him, short, a bit rounder on the belly than preferable, dark blonde hair, ocean blue eyes and hard lines. He stared, not surprised in the least by his defeated, forlorn countenance. For some reason, his mind went back to the Moving Castle and the gossip about Sherlock. As much as he craved for an adventure-filled life, it was as possible for him have one as it was for that mirror to be someone's saviour. What did plain, dim, powerless John had to offer? Nothing.

Sighing, he put his white coat on the wall hanger by the door and left. He still had to pay his sister a visit, and he could only hope his trip to her new workplace would be a short one.

This was really not his day. He had just arrived downtown, there were people everywhere he turned, but none seemed to notice he was totally lost. Two things could have gone wrong: either he missed the street and wandered far from his destination or — and this was most likely what happened — his sister hadn't been quite as sober as he wished when she wrote down the directions to this Cesari's something and he had no idea where to go.

Great.

He was so focused on the minuscule piece of paper in his hand that he ran right into an officer. One he treated once. One who appeared to dislike him immensely, if the frown on his face was meant anything. The day was just getting better and better.

"Well, well, if it isn't our favourite army doctor. I still got that scar you gave me, Johnny boy." He said, glaring at him from above thanks to the height advantage.

John couldn't even remember the man's name. All he did recall was that he treated the officer's bullet wound, saving his life, but leaving a nasty scar. Apparently, the guy favoured looks over being alive.

"I think you meant former army doctor." Said another, stepping from behind his friend.

Seriously. By far, this was the peachiest day of John's life.

"Look, I don't mean to cause any trouble. If you'll step aside, I'll be on my way." He attempted, without much success, to move along. They blocked his path. Again. He was trying to be nice and not cause a commotion; however, sometimes things don't turn out as you plan.

"C'mon, doctor Watson. Come and have a chat with us, it's been so long since we've last seen you."

"I don't believe we have anything to chat about." He stood up straighter, voice hard, glaring right back at them, gripping his cane in anger. Being shorter and outnumbered, not to mention the limp, they simply shared a look and laughed right in his face.

"Uh oh, look like someone's angry."

"Reckon he could throw a nasty punch… when he actually managed to reach the target." More laughter.

"Let. Me. Pass." He enunciated each word through gritted teeth.

"Well, John, if you want to go" Said the officer closest to him, bowing his head down. John could smell the alcohol on his breath, "you'll have to get through us first."

His free hand was already closed into a fist; it would only take a second to wipe those smirks off their faces. However, just as he was about to strike, he heard footsteps behind him. Another attacker, perhaps? He blinked, distracted, and couldn't contain a little jump when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Ah, I've finally found you, doctor." A deep baritone voice resounded around them. Like the men in front of him, John turned his attention to the stranger, his eyes widening in recognition.

Sherlock! He had never seen the sorcerer before, but heard about him all the time. He had a clear picture of him on his mind and the real Sherlock did not fall short of his expectations, quite the contrary.

He was tall, taller than John expected, and slightly muscular, despite his lean physique. His skin was as pale as the white clouds that covered his castle in the morning, his eyes were multi-coloured — a mixture of blue, green and grey, sparkling under the sunlight. His hair was a mess of black curls, contrasting beautifully with his fair skin and eyes. A pink mouth, perfectly sculpted like a cupid's bow, sneered at the men in front of them. He looked more like a spoiled prince than a powerful sorcerer.

John just stared and stared, taking in as many details as he could. When would he ever have the chance to do so again anyway?

"Who are you?" Not like he didn't know, but he just wanted to be sure. Maybe he was hallucinating, who knows?

"Not of your interest and unwilling to have this conversation. Move along, now. There you go." He spoke, raising his right hand and pointing it to their right. Both officers jerked in their place before turning right and leaving, uttering confused "what"s and "how"s. "Don't waste your knuckles on them. No amount of punching in the world would have an effect on such brainless idiots."

"I—ah…" John was at a loss for words — so much for not being another of those brainless idiots. Thankfully for him, Sherlock didn't seem to notice, cutting him off instead.

"Cesari's bakery, right? Yes, of course. Not there to actually buy goods, someone you know works there. Friend? No. Family." He didn't appear to be talking to John, well, to anyone for that matter. He simply talked nonstop, getting everything right and scaring the living pants out of the smaller man next to him. "Parents? No. Ha, brother! Might as well accompany you, since I cannot remain in this spot any longer and I'm afraid you are involved now. Do try to act normal though, we're being followed."

John moved automatically, following the strong presence — and equally strong hand on his back — pushing him forwards, bewildered by the whole interaction.

"I—You…how did you know all that?" He asked, barely aware of the weird, gooey black creatures squirming their way towards them. Sherlock picked up his pace and John struggled to keep up, his legs significantly shorter, his limp only making matters worse. Sherlock looked pointedly at his jumper and John realized he forgot his "Doctor John Watson" tag on it. Okay, fairly easy to guess, but what about everything else?

"I didn't _know_. I deduced it, John." He said and suddenly sped up his speech much more than his pace. "Your hair is tousled, your cheeks burnt red, your clothes are rumpled and you look remarkably tired. Could be because you just left work and faced rather large mobs that have taken over the streets, but that would not explain the hair and cheeks, there's no wind in the midst of so many people after all —crowded streetcar it is. Not particularly unusual for it to be this full this time of the day, however, it was overwhelmingly cramped considering the current war festivities, if one can call it that. You could neither find a place to sit nor did you want to stand in the middle of it, with nothing to hold on and support yourself — you don't trust your balance even with your cane, and prefer to stand by the bannister on the entrance, thus your windblown cheeks and hair, clothes rumpled from strangers that kept pushing you when entering the vehicle."

John stared up at him, mouth slack in awe, his destination and purpose completely forgotten. Actually, he was surprised he could still remember his own name. He never got why people fussed over Sherlock so much, and now he was painfully aware why. He was also painfully aware of the gooey creatures appearing from thin air in front of them.

The sorcerer took a sharp turn left, pulling John up when he tumbled and almost fell. '_He must be great at poker_' John mused while Sherlock kept on his brisk strides and quick words in an almost detached manner, as if being chased while deducing someone's life was nothing out of the ordinary. "You are lost, which obviously means you're not from this particular neighbourhood. Cesari's logo is at the back of the paper you're holding in your right hand, indicating your current destination. Hold on."

And that was all the warning John got before the arm gently nudging him forwards wrapped itself around his waist, pushed him against a broad chest and all of the sudden they were flying. Sherlock instructed him in short commands "Drop your legs, keep walking", and held his hands as they walked on air, high above the unobservant people below them. His cane lay forgotten on a dirty alley, and it would be a while before John realized it was gone.

"You wouldn't go through all this trouble just to buy bread, you're a practical man and you loathe these odd government gatherings — you wouldn't have come today if possible. Meeting someone then, not a lover, there's not a hint of a smile on your face and you why would come this far if the relationship was sinking? Friends or family. You couldn't cancel it, so it isn't a meeting per se, someone works there and you're checking on them — probably because of their alcoholism, evident by the scrawls of someone not fully in control of their motor functions."

The doctor had lost his ability to respond entirely. He was _walking on air_, for Heaven's sakes! Walking on air, being guided by one of the most famous sorcerer's of his time, listening to his absurdly correct deductions, feeling more alive than he had all of his life!

He could see hundreds, maybe thousands of people below them, some were dancing, chattering, celebrating in any way they could. What exactly, he couldn't tell, the war was still raging on and usually the subject would make his blood boil in anger, but right now he didn't care about it at all. There were flying kayaks not too far from them, some rising in the sky, other descending to land. There was a hole on one of the ceilings below, and a woman cleaning one of the balconies. There was a wizard holding his hands and making him fly. Nothing could disturb his mood now.

Blood rushed through his veins with the adrenaline high, and John basked in it, like a junkie getting a fix. He was actually panting, and a persistent grin that almost split his face refused to budge. He decided to leave it there. Sherlock kept rambling on, looking utterly bored in comparison.

"You were downtown in the middle of a celebration you despise, you have no lover and in spite of being lost, you did not require assistance from anyone around you, preferring to wander empty alleyways until you found your way. You clearly have trust issues, therefore, very few friends, even fewer — if any at all — that you actively seek out. Family. You're not exactly old, though not young either, your parents have probably aged enough to retire or are getting there; a sibling then. You wrote Harry under the address, male sibling, a brother." He concluded, depositing the still slack-jawed doctor on the balcony of Cesari's.

Finally managing to come up with something other than "ah…", John said, "That was brilliant!" Sherlock blinked a couple of times at his response, out of sorts for the first time in their brief meeting.

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do they say?" He asked, leaning dangerously forward on the balcony bannister, drawn to Sherlock's magnetic presence, the tall man floating a few feet from him.

"Piss off." He answered and offered John a flash of a smile. John had never been so elated to see someone's smile before. Not even Mary's.

"You got one thing wrong, though." Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and rolled his eyes. John chuckled, unable to restrain himself.

"What is it?"

"Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock did a little spin and punched his own hand. He was still floating around, reminding John of a very angry ballerina.

"Sister! There's always something." He sighed. Blinking a couple of times, he straightened his posture and stared back at John — who _did not_, mind you, shiver when their eyes met. Suddenly, he seemed to remember they were just being chased and said "Now, I'll draw them off. Wait here until the coast is clear."

"Ok." He nodded emphatically.

"That's my doctor." Sherlock winked and dropped down, vanishing into the crowds below. John's heart did a somersault — from the wink or the drop he didn't know, and thought it best not to find out.

Not such a bad day after all.


	2. Of Sorrow And Misfortune

**A/N: **New chapter is up! Hope you like it. Please R&R.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Howl's Moving Castle.

**Chapter II: Of Sorrow and Misfortune**

Harry sighed heavily and forced a smile on her face. Customers were livelier than usual today, and she hated them with a passion for it. She neither knew nor cared why everyone was acting so bloody cheerful, just wished they would stop already. "Harriet, come here" said one of them, "Harriet, you look lovely today" complimented the other, "Harriet, wanna go for a walk?", "Harriet, let's share a cuppa, sweetie". Harriet this, Harriet that, good God, would it ever end?

Her parents had always prided themselves on having such a beautiful daughter. A little on the short side, but elegantly slender, she enchanted everyone with her sun-kissed blonde hair, light blue eyes, fair skin, and a pretty doll's shaped mouth. In their eyes, she was the example of perfection. When she was a child, they used to parade her around wearing uncomfortable lace dresses and a hat, something frilly and girly that covered most of her face and made it almost impossible for her to see where she was going. It was horrid.

As a teenager, there was only so much her parents could do to try and control her. Choosing what to wear was the least bit of freedom they could give her, so they allowed her that, albeit grudgingly. They were discontent with her bland, simple choices, but refrained from complaining about it since their acquaintances seemed to like her even more when she dressed that way. "Such a beautiful and humble daughter you have, Mr and Mrs Watson" they would say. Cor, she hated them all.

Everything changed, however, once she realized her preference for those of the same sex and decided to come out to her family. She had just turned 18 and figured it was a good time as any to tell them. They couldn't dictate her life anymore, and she had the right to love whomever she damn wanted to. If only she knew what waited her, perhaps she would've kept her mouth shut for another year or two. Oh, what a disastrous day that had been.

She was promptly kicked out on the streets with little more than the clothes on her back. How dare she grow up and _be gay_? They had yelled that, as if she had a choice in the matter. Although she despised being their little prize, she loved them; they were her parents after all. She begged for them to let her stay, told them nothing had changed, she was still the same girl. They sneered and threw her bag on the sidewalk, closing the door behind her. That's when she began drinking, only it was manageable then.

John sneaked all of her belongings out of the house, being the lovely brother he was — though she would be caught dead before saying that out loud — and gave her all the money he saved from the very few times they got allowances. He continued to help her after he began working, up until she met Clara.

Clara was the best thing that ever happened to her.

Harry was a waitress at this posh café downtown and Clara was a regular customer. Clara was always polite and sweet, with no malice underneath, no lust in her gaze. She looked at Harry like a human being, not an object, a servant.

They became friends, going for walks after Harry left work. Clara left home to study fashion, a subject Harry detested from a very early age for obvious reasons. However, whenever Clara talked about it, it seemed to be the most interesting thing to study in the entire world. Soon they realized they were in love.

They moved in together and the first year was bliss. Harry worked and tried to find a subject she was interested on since she obviously didn't want to be a waitress forever. Clara continued her course and got a part-time job as an assistant at a hat shop. The two most common items in their tiny flat were cake leftovers and Harry's most hated piece of clothing: hats. She laughed at the irony.

The drinking didn't stop, though. She missed her family, and John barely had any time to spare her a visit, him being in medical school. She drank to forget, and more often than not Clara arrived home to find Harry passed out in the bathroom or in a pool of her own vomit.

They lasted three years, until Clara graduated and became an actual designer. Harry remembered very little of the graduation party and everything about the following heart-wrenching breakup. The best years of her life ended then and there.

She was a goner after that. Lost her job, lived off some meagre savings until they ran out and she was evicted. On a random night, she showed up at John's door, shivering from the cold, hungry and heartbroken. By then, he had already finished his studies and lived in a tiny studio. He took her in, cared for her while she recovered and gave her a brotherly scolding once she got better. He found her a job, she began taking night classes on millinery, if only so she could show up at Clara's home one day and gift her with a hat she designed herself as an apology for her mistakes, and a private joke of sorts.

John got promoted and they moved to a one bedroom flat. Still small, but better at accommodating both of them, especially because of John's sudden interest in dating. Harry realized it was time to move around the third time she got home only to find a sock on the door and end up sleeping most of the night in the hallway. Knowing her baby brother was such a success with the ladies was as much amusing as it was annoying.

To her horror, her brother decided to join the King's Guard and become an army doctor. He told her she was doing so much better and that she could be without him now. Harry wasn't so sure, but there was nothing she could do about it. She moved, finished her millinery course, designed and handmade the prettiest hat she had ever seen and paid Clara a visit. A happily married Clara. She got back to drinking and was on the streets for the second time in a matter of weeks.

John took her in again. This time he was already living at the small house on the back of the clinic, and didn't invite as many girls over as before. Even so, she didn't stay long, just enough to go through the abstinence period and find a job. She couldn't risk losing the last good thing left and she dreaded the day John would stop putting up with her.

So, here she was, right back where she started. She could work as a hatter's assistant, but the only reason she had done that course was to have more in common with Clara. She hated hat-making. She would've to find something new to study, much to her displeasure.

Throughout all of her crazy meanderings and exceptional binge drinking, however, one thing never changed: John. The constant in her life, always the hero, the saviour, he helped her every time she needed, no questions asked. He looked tired, worried, downright pissed off, but he helped her. He had always been the rock, the responsible one. Even after joining the King's Medical Corp, working under stress, watching the war before his eyes, getting shot, limping, he was still the same John.

With that in mind, anyone could understand her shock when one of her work colleagues rushed to her and said quite seriously: "Harry, your brother just _landed_ on the veranda."

'Well, that's a first.' John thought as he watched his sister run to him as if he was in mortal peril. Wasn't he the one always rescuing _her_?

Besides, there was nothing to be rescued from, not really. Yes, he might have arrived in a slightly unorthodox manner, but it was a perfectly safe trip…or not. He could've fallen to his death at any given moment if weren't for Sherlock though, so perhaps his sister wasn't overreacting much. She stopped in front of him, gasping for air while checking for wounds. He looked out the window, _not_ searching for a certain sorcerer.

"John?!" He blinked, finally paying attention to her. "How did you land on the veranda? You can't fly! Right? I mean, how is this even possible?" He opened his mouth to respond, yet no words came out. He didn't know the answer to that himself.

Oh, but how he wished he knew! If only he could go out there right now, find Sherlock and ask him how he flew, if he used a spell or not, what made him so powerful, however… Who is he kidding? He'll never see the man again, and his life will be as ordinary as it has been so far. No flying again whatsoever.

He frowned, upset. Harry misunderstood.

"Oh, John, you must be in shock or something. C'mon, I'll make you some tea."

"Harriet," Her boss appeared out of thin air, "why not use the office?"

She forced a smile on her lips, answering in a voice as sweet as she could possibly muster, "Thank you, but I'll get back to work in just a second." The man nodded and left them alone. John was glad to see she was making an effort to keep her job this time around.

"Harry, there's no need, really. I came here to check on—"

"Nonsense. Come with me." She took his hand and pulled him towards the employee's stairs, leading him to the storage behind the bakery's kitchen.

He sat on top of some boxes, briefly wondering whether there was any food inside of them and making a mental note to never actually eat anything there. She joined him soon afterwards, pushing a steaming cup of tea in his hand. He held it there, looking at the teacup as if it were the source of all his problems. She stayed silent for a bit, though he knew that wouldn't last. After a few minutes of asking and prodding, he sighed and told her what happened.

"What?! That must've been a wizard, John!" She exclaimed, clearly transfixed by his tale.

"So?" He shot back, angrier than he intended. "If it weren't for him, I could've been beaten to a bloody pulp."

She frowned but nodded, he did have a point. However, something about it all was bothering her immensely. She fidgeted in her make-shift seat, staring at her brother. "You were always able to take care of yourself, though. I don't see why you would accept someone's help so readily. It's not very you."

He hated when she was right. Sipping his tea, he remained silent, a shrug as his only answer. All of the sudden, her eyes widened and she gasped.

"He didn't steal your heart or anything, did he?" John snorted into his cup, spilling the warm liquid on his beige jumper. "Don't laugh, it's a very valid question. I heard about a wizard that comes to town every once in a while, he has the weirdest name… What was it again?" She looked up, pondering on it.

"Sherlock." He replied in a whisper.

"Yes, that! They say he eats hearts, John! You still have yours, right? He didn't steal it and turned it into a meatloaf, did he?" It was a very poor attempt at a joke, but he looked at her and smiled all the same. She needed to know he was fine.

He was not.

"No, he didn't, Harry." She still seemed concerned. He gulped half his tea, ignoring the burn on his throat. "No need to worry, you know? He only goes after truly extraordinary people, not plain old doctors."

Harry tilted her head, sighing. John desperately tried to look less wistful, though it wasn't working. No matter how many months or years they spent apart, she was still his sister and knew him better than most people.

"Don't say that. At least you're still young. Besides, you're pretty short for a man, that's out of the ordinary, isn't it?" She teased. That was what Harry always did when she realized he wouldn't open up about what was bothering him. He offered her a small smile in return for her efforts.

She pulled her legs up, sitting cross-legged, facing him. "John, I know I don't need to tell you this, but these are dangerous times, you know?" He had been in the army, of course he didn't need her to say this. Besides, dangerous wasn't always bad. "They say even the _The Woman_ is back on the prowl — and she is the most dangerous of all witches!"

He could listen to her, albeit her voice sounded strange and far away. No matter how much he tried not to, his mind kept taking him back to the flying incident, to Sherlock's penetrating gaze and his deep baritone voice.

"John?"

"Huh?" He blinked distractedly, ignorant of her glare.

"Oh, John!" She said affectionately, running her fingers through his hair, though her eyes were sad, and she bit her lip in worry.

A sliding noise came from the wall of boxes to their left, and a man's head popped up from a small square hole.

"Harriet, the madeleines are done!" The head announced.

"Okay, I'll be right there." She answered, a tight smile on her lips, her patience wearing thin.

"Alright." And the man was gone, hole closed behind him.

"Well," John said, noting his presence there was doing more harm than good, considering his sister's irritation, "I'll go home now. It's a relief to see you're doing well, Harry."

She insisted on accompanying him, and he walked slowly towards the exit, watching her quickly talk to the customers, somehow managing to follow him and serve madeleines at the same time. He was already leaving, glad the visit was coming to a close so he would be alone with his thoughts, when Harry decided to question him again, and about a subject he definitely _did not_ wish to discuss.

"John…" She began and held his hand in hers, "Are you happy at that clinic? Do you really see yourself working there your whole life?"

He suppressed his surprise at her observational skills. John obviously didn't give her enough credit. Perhaps she truly was sobering up now, not only as an alcoholic, but as a person.

"I've always wanted to be a doctor, Harry. The clinic's good pay and it's a nice place to work." She frowned and shook her head at his clearly evasive answer.

"You didn't answer my question. It's just… I hated when you joined the King's Medical Corp, you know? I was afraid I would lose you. But John, you were so much happier then. You said it yourself at the time that you felt like life had a purpose. Now, you look…" _Lost_. She wanted to say, though she didn't. If she pried too much, he would just shut her out completely.

It didn't matter whether she pronounced her thoughts or not, he understood what she meant.

"Well, I—" He began.

"Bye, Harriet!" A man wearing a brown apron said as he passed by them, waving at his sister. He could her growling low in her throat as she replied hurriedly,

"See you tomorrow!"

Before she could get her full attention back to her older brother, he had already pulled his hand back and was turning right, closing her off and leaving.

"I'll get going then." He said, smiling at her. Harry sighed, knowing whatever she said now would fall on deaf ears.

"Well, the place can't be all bad if you healed your limp, right? No more cane for Dr Watson!"

He couldn't contain his surprise then, and immediately looked at his right hand, bewildered by the fact that she was right, there was no cane there. It must have fallen when Sherlock pulled him up and they started to fly. Gritting his teeth at the memory and its sudden significance, he took a step away from her, desperate to leave _immediately_.

"Right. Well, see you soon, Harry." And he walked towards the street, feeling the pain on his leg returning slowly. Even though he increased the distance between them, he could hear her shout,

"John, just promise to take care of yourself!"

How odd it was to hear those words coming from his sister. If only he could see himself that day, this distant and depressed John, perhaps then he would understand why her worried eyes followed his every move until he was out of her line of sight.

Unfortunately for him, she wasn't the only one following his every move. A different set of blue eyes watched him like a hawk. However, unlike Harry, _The Woman _would never let him be out of her sight. Oh, no. Too late for John Watson to be safe from _her_.

The ride back was tedious, albeit much less unpleasant. Night was setting in and most people had already returned to their homes. John gripped the bannister by the streetcar exit, forcing himself not to smile at the memory of Sherlock's correct deductions about something as simple as where he liked to stand on public transportation.

He kept glancing towards the far off mountains around the city, all the while telling himself it was only to appreciate the view, not in search of metal castles.

As quickly as he could walk with the pain he was feeling, John rushed home. He was holding up remarkably well without his cane, though how he was walking about at all was still a puzzle to him. A puzzle he preferred not to solve, thank you very much. No point going there, not now, not ever.

Barely paying attention to his surroundings, he entered the clinic, locking the door behind him. Blue eyes scanned the room for where the nurses kept his old cane — they did tell him it was locked up somewhere in case he lost the new one or didn't get used to it. Distracted as he was all the way back and even now, he didn't realize the quiet and ominous presence that trailed him until that very second. By the time the door opened and the small bell rang, it was too late to run or hide.

A woman in her early thirties walked in, striking in both looks and manners. Pale as the moon and thinner than anyone John had ever met, she walked towards him with the grace of a cat, only she reminded him much more of a tigress — ready to pounce on the slightest threat. She wore a white dress which complemented her figure rather nicely, and an equally white shrug covered her cleavage. He wondered whether she would at least _look _shorter without her black pumps and dark brown hair on a high bun.

Probably not. Why did he have to be so bloody short?

Still, as beautiful as she was, something about her ticked him off. He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end at her mere presence.

"You don't appear to have a medical emergency, madam, and I'm sorry to inform you the clinic's closed. Maybe you could come back some other time tomorrow."

She ignored him entirely, peering at her surroundings. Her vivid crimson lips pursed for a moment before she finally spoke.

"What an ordinary clinic, with such common furniture. You're quite plain-looking yourself."

Such hateful, hideous words coming from a lovely mouth and a melodic voice made his blood boil. Completely ignoring his pain, in just a few strides John passed by her and stood near the door, trying to reign in his temper.

"If there's no way to assist you, ma'am, then perhaps it's time to leave." He said, voice low and cold, his hand turning the doorknob clearly showing her the way out. She chuckled and turned to him, a hand on her waist.

"You're very brave, Doctor Watson, taking on _The Woman_." She emphasized her title, giving John a mere second to process the information and try to flee.

"The Woman!" He exclaimed and made for the door, only to find those slug-like black creatures he had seen earlier that day blocking his path. He turned back to her, ready to face his imminent death.

She opened her arms and grinned at him, her whole body seemed to expand and become almost transparent. He could see right through her, and if he thought she was pale before, now she was positively ghostly, coming at him in the most terrifying speed, almost as if—

'_She's flying_' was all that crossed his mind before he covered his head with his arms, trying to protect himself from the inevitable blow. Strong wind almost knocked him off his feet, and before he had the chance to gather his wits, he heard her say from right behind him:

"You won't be able to tell anyone about that spell. Send my regards to Sherlock. Tell him he owes me dinner." The bell sounded, the door closed with a bang and suddenly it was all over.

Slowly, he uncovered his head, feeling pain shooting from everywhere in his body as he lowered his arms. He looked around, checking for any signs that what had just happened wasn't just his imagination on an overdrive, but there was nothing. The clinic's reception was as it had always been.

Common. _Plain_. **_Ordinary_**.

He sighed, thinking that he might have just gone round the bend for good this time. Maybe he just imagined everything. Yes, that was probably it. It was the only thing that made sense at the moment. After all, why would The Woman take any interest in him? He wasn't even worth the curse, really.

Placing his hands on his knees, John closed his eyes and leaned forward, trying to even out his breathing. A minute or so went by before he stood up straight opened his eyes, and the effort he made to calm down promptly went out the window.

Swallowing the sudden lump on his throat and the dread that crept up on him, he stared at his hands, veiny and wrinkly, with joints bigger, rounder and hurting — the hands of a 90-year-old man. He touched his face with those alien members and felt even more wrinkles, sagging skin and even a mole!

Pacing his steps and hating himself for losing his cane, he walked towards the small mirror the girls kept by on the wall. And there he was. Old, face lined like a map, hair greyer than rain clouds and a slight hunchback just to make things even worse.

"Okay, John, calm down. Take deep breaths." He whispered to himself, turning around, walking away and returning to his previous spot, hoping this was still some kind of hallucination.

No such luck.

Many thoughts raced through his mind, not one made sense. Although he tried his best to keep panic at bay, it was no use. Pacing back and forward, the myriad of ideas on his head were reduced to a single sentence, a question:

What the bloody hell was he supposed to do now?


	3. The Scarecrow in Yellow

**A/N: **New chapter is up! Hope you like it. Please R&R.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Howl's Moving Castle.

**Chapter III: The Scarecrow in Yellow**

John groaned. Oh, he had never taken one single measly sick day on his life, so today was the day to do just that. How could he possibly work looking like he did? How would he even begin to explain himself to customers and colleagues? 'Oh, you know, this witch came by yesterday, I unknowingly offended her and she cursed me. No big deal, really. Now, Mary, pass me that pill, yes, the pain medication. My back is killing me.'

Nope, that would not do.

Very slowly, the doctor got his old body out of bed, wincing in pain at every miniscule movement. He wished The Woman had cast a different curse on him. Perhaps she could've turned him into a frog, like in the fairy tales his mother read to him as a child. A frog, a merman, foam, anything would be better than an ancient version of himself. The only time he remembers feeling so much pain was when he got shot!

It was just his luck that Mike Stamford — the clinic's owner and one of his closest friend — returned from the capital today. Lovely. Perfect timing!

As he tried to go about his morning routine, he could hear the commotion at the clinic; the distinctive shrills of delight from some of the girls who work there. Mike was always cheerful, and he had this way about him, something that made you smile even at the darkest hour. Despite being the boss, everyone loved to know he was coming back from his trips. John suspected this was also because of the gifts he so often brought for most of them, but never dared to voice his suspicions.

There's nothing he'd like more than to greet him, say he was very much missed by all, which is entirely true, if only he could!

Lost in his musings, John didn't pay attention to the footsteps approaching his door.

"John?" The muffled sound crossed his threshold, startling him.

'Shit!' He cursed internally, wishing he could punch himself for his carelessness. Not only had he overslept and missed the quiet night time — the only moment he had to escape unseen, he forgot to come up with a plausible excuse as to why he, the doctor who never misses a day's work, isn't actually working.

Three knocks accompanied by a "John?!" warned him that unless he spoke soon, Mike would probably open his door with the master key and become aware of his misfortune.

"Don't come in!" He scowled at the sound of his own raspy voice. "I'm very sick. Contagiously sick." He coughed once for good measure and twice because he now had the lung of a ninety-year old man. The third and fourth times was just his body taking the piss, really.

"You, sick?" He chuckled. "I guess there's a first time for everything. I don't believe I've ever seen you ill, John, though you do sound like an old man."

He snickered at Mike's comment. "I'll stay in bed today. Tomorrow I'll be brand new!"

"Well, at least let me check on you and see what I can do for you, yeah? There must be something you can take…" He heard the rattle of keys and panic flared within him.

"Please don't! I have all I need here, and I don't you to catch this cold too." He pleaded.

"Well, alright, if you say so." He sounded concerned, and John desperately hoped Mike would leave him alone. "I just wanted to make sure you're alright. I'll ask Mary to check on you later, that ought to cheer you up."

By the time his footsteps died out, John had already made up his mind. He had no choice but to leave. Where, how and for how long, he had no idea, but staying wasn't an option. Like The Woman said, he couldn't tell anyone about the spell, so explaining his situation was an impossible task. No one at the clinic would have the faintest idea of how to help him, that is, if they even recognized him! He had to go. Now!

"You're fine, Watson. You've got your health, your jumper still fits and everyone always said you dress like an old man after all. Everything's fine." He said to his reflection on the mirror.

He had to leave, surely. However, the question remained unanswered: where would he go? 'Send my regards to Sherlock' she had said. Well, perhaps he could search for the sorcerer's castle. To be quite honest, this was Sherlock's fault anyway. If he hadn't intervened, John would probably be in the hospital after being beaten up, sure, but at least he would be curse free. The Woman would never waste her time and energy with such an ordinary doctor, unless, of course, he crossed paths with the great Sherlock Holmes. It was all the man's fault indeed. He should take responsibility. So to speak.

Yes, that was the most logical solution, obviously. Not that John wanted to see him again. Nope. There was no anxiety, no butterflies in his stomach, nothing. Just logic and reason.

At least, that was what he repeatedly told himself.

Why, oh why, did the castle have to be so freaking far away from the city? John couldn't decide which part of his body hurt more, though he believed it would be a tie between his knees and his back.

'Oh, sod off' he thought, scowling at a couple of curious farmers passing him by with their stupid, relatively fast and probably comfortable carriages. Alright, maybe not comfortable or speedy, but definitely better than walking so many miles on foot. If only he hadn't forgotten his spare cane in his haste to leave, he wouldn't be in so much pain right now. Oh well, he should just be glad he managed to sneak out of there without anyone noticing.

"Thar ain't safe for yer, grandpa!" One farmer yelled, stopping his carriage beside John. Damn him and his meddling. And his youth. "Yer find nuthin' but witches and wizards."

"Yes, I know. Thanks." The man raised an eyebrow at him, clearly wondering why anyone would willingly venture on such dangerous hills.

John continued his long, long, long walk up ahead, ignoring everyone who crossed paths with him. He had never paid attention to how much people take care of other's business, but it was seriously starting to irk him now. All he wanted to do was reach Sherlock's Castle, preferably today, essentially before his legs — or his heart — gave away. Was that too much to ask?!

Unfortunately for John, his left leg did exactly as he feared: it cramped, he lost his balance, and with no good leg to help him regain it, onwards he fell, face down, arse up. Oh, what a lovely and dignified way to be found if he happened to die there, which was entirely possible considering his current age.

He tried simply sitting back on his heels and ended up face down on the ground once more. Groaning in pain, he crawled his way to a relatively large rock, supporting his weight on it to get up. When he finally managed to sit down, back leaning on the rough surface of the rock behind him, he looked upwards, staring hard at the icy blue sky.

'If I ever get rid of this blasted curse, I'll never take walking or standing up for granted again. Swear.' He promised to a deity he seldom talked to.

Now that he had sat down, it would be at least a couple of minutes until he was able to get back on his feet again. Deciding he should take the opportunity and eat, he sighed and took a small parcel from his pocket. It contained just some bread and cheese wrapped in an old linen cloth he got from the clinic. Even if he had had the time to get more food, he wouldn't have been able to carry it. Bread and cheese would have to do.

The dry snack scratched his throat, and he looked around the grass hills, slopes and plains in hopes of spotting a river nearby. He looked up, down and right, but saw nothing. However, once he turned left, amidst some bushes, not too far from him, a long and seemingly sturdy wood stick stood out from the leaves. It was probably stuck in some root or another, but surely a couple of pulls would be enough to free it. And oh my, what a lovely cane that stick would make! Well, as lovely as an unpolished, rough piece of wood could be.

Getting up with some difficulty, his joints popping with the effort, John squared his shoulders and glared at the stick as he walked toward it. So what if he was an old man now? Just because it hurt to stand up, it didn't mean he couldn't do this. He was Captain John Watson, and that stick didn't know who it was dealing with!

He pulled once. It didn't budge.

"You're getting out of there."

He pulled again, hard. The bushes moved a little, some leaves falling on his feet.

"Oh, would you just—"

He began, pulling once again, harder than the times before. His joints popped once more, and his muscles ached from the strain.

"You stubborn little bugger!" He exclaimed, tired and annoyed. "I am Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and I will not be beaten by a stick!"

With one last and strong pull, the branch finally came loose. John was just about to celebrate when he realized that piece of wood wasn't just anordinary piece of wood. It was much longer than he expected, there was another stick tied to it, forming a sort of cross, and, to his utter surprise, it was wearing a dress.

Standing before him was the first, and probably last, living female scarecrow he had ever seen. It wore a bright flowery yellow dress, a pale yellow cardigan, and an equally yellow ribbon adorned the thing's head. The dress was a bit torn on the hem and some leaves were stuck to the cardigan's sleeves, but other than that, the scarecrow was ready for quite the fancy party.

"Erm, hello." He said, stiffly. The thing could be working for The Woman after all.

It simply stared at him with dead black eyes, two little dots on a turnip-head, and an odd, toothy smile. It was as threatening as an ant.

"You don't work for The Woman now, do you?" It jumped backwards at the mention of her moniker. 'That's a no, then'. "Good." He answered, scratching the back of his neck in wonder. What was he supposed to do now?

The lady-scarecrow was remarkable, and whatever spell had been cast on it (or maybe her) must have been a powerful one. There were no ropes attaching it to anything, it wasn't rooted to the ground. It simply stood there, against all odds, wind and rain, almost as if it were human.

"Well…" He began, still unsure of what to say. Could it even understand him? "You're not upside down anymore now, so…you know…I'll be going."

There was nothing else he could do to help, even if he wanted to. At least now it was free to move about and travel to whatever it was going before it got stuck. John turned his back to the scarecrow and resumed his marching upwards — still with no cane and two aching legs.

However, as he moved up, the strong wind decelerating his pace, he heard the 'tap, tap' of wood hitting the ground, and his suspicions were confirmed when he turned around and saw a yellow dot approaching, something hanging from its arm-branch.

"You don't have to follow me!" He yelled, voice raspy. "You don't owe me anything, really. It's all fine." He tried to reassure it. "You're free now to go and find whoever cursed you…or something!" He finished lamely, moving up once again.

The scarecrow didn't listen, however, and followed him still. Once it caught up to John, what was hanging from its branch became visible, and the doctor's eyes widened with surprise. An odd-looking cane, with a beak and eyes resembling a bird, was perched on the wood. The lady-scarecrow let it drop to the ground, right next to John's right foot.

"Wow, that's, erm, that's very nice of you. Thank you." His hand gripped the cane, and he put his weight on it, sighing with relief. "My legs certainly appreciate it." He chuckled. "While you're at it, could you just bring me Sherlock's Castle? God knows when I'll find it on my own." He joked, smiling at the turnip-head.

Apparently scarecrows aren't the best of jokesters.

John merely watched as the wood sticks in yellow went further and further away from him, back to where it was before, beyond his current line of sight. Sighing, he shook his head. It was only a joke! He didn't really expect it to go and somehow get the Castle. He hoped he hadn't offended it or something of the sort, but maybe it just left because it wanted to, not because of some silly request of his.

Night was setting in quickly, dark grey storm clouds hiding the sun — as well as a couple of flying battleships — from view. John couldn't pause to wonder if the quickly gathering clouds were magical or natural, he knew he was running out of time. Either he found Sherlock soon, or searched for a place to stay the night. Albeit the wind didn't make it any easier for him to walk, and the biting cold only made his aches worse, he had to go on. Losing strength faster than he expected, the doctor struggled to climb the last hill.

"Ugh, smoke." He murmured, coughing from the smell, soot flying around him the closer he got to the top of the hill.

'Smoke!'

Where there is smoke, there is fire, and where there is fire, there is a cabin (hopefully)! Perhaps his luck was finally beginning to change! Gathering his strength and determination, John could swear he even got a few years younger as he took the last steps towards the peak, his grip so hard on the cane his knuckles turned white.

As he approached it, however, the sound of metal clicking reached his ears, and the top of a very strange moving something could be seen coming in his direction.

"Jesus…"

As the thing approached, it became easily recognizable. Coming fast towards him was the infamous castle, the one he was so desperately attempting to find. The scarecrow in yellow was coming too, its 'tap, tap' sound drowned out by the roars of the moving machine beside it. John wanted to thank it for actually granting his wish, but his voice died in his throat, as if he had forgotten how to speak. All John could do now was look and be amazed.

First he could see a kind of huge and round face — well, it looked like a face anyway, but it was actually just two tiny windows on what seemed to be a round metal roof. Small wooden cabins stood a bit higher on both sides of the roof, both with chimneys and more windows. This, however, was not even one tenth of the entire castle.

How tall was it, really? He guessed twenty meters or more, but was too bewildered to ponder on the matter for long. There were more and more small cabins on the thing, and gigantic metallic spheres too; he could see gears and pulleys all around, with cables going to and from God knows where. Its weird chicken feet were even stranger from up close, especially after noticing some sort of complementary wings it had on its sides, or were they supposed to be fins?

The whole thing looked ready to fall apart, though, its parts all jumbled together, old and rusty. Nonetheless, somehow it was moving, and fast, forwards it came, as if nothing could stop it. It was…It was just so…

Majestic.

John tried to be composed and contain his reactions, but how could his jaw not drop at such a close distance from the Castle? How could he move at all, now that he was facing his destination and finally coming to terms with the fact that his life would never be the same? He didn't know whether to be scared to death or elated, so he opted for both. Both seemed reasonable.

Shaking his head to wake him from his stupor, he realized the castle stopped for a few seconds, as if it was getting its breath back. The scarecrow stood beside him for a moment, its branch-arm pointing to some stone steps and a door at the back at the back of the castle. It was urging John to move and get in.

When Sherlock put his hand on John's shoulder the past day, he set John's meagre life into an entirely new and unfamiliar path. Right now, John had two choices: to go in and risk everything, give up all he knew for the unknown; or turn around and pretend this never happened, go to the King's Corps in the hopes someone might rid him of his curse.

He could still go back. He could.

He just didn't want to.

Ignoring the pain all over his body, John ran towards the entrance of the castle.

"Thank you for all your help! Hope you get rid of that curse, alright? Come find me when you do!" John waved, feeling his heart hammering in his chest, his sweaty hand clasping the doorknob tightly. He's not hesitating on purpose, of course not.

Straightening his posture, John turned, closed the door and faced the inside of the oh-so famous castle for the first time. Step by step, forward he went, curious eyes taking in as many details as his brain allowed him.

It was such an odd little place, though he guessed it fit Sherlock's persona quite well. Three different wallpapers covered the living room/kitchen/everything apparently walls; two were from the Victorian period, with its regal designs in black and white on one side, caramel and white on the other. The third wallpaper looked more modern, contrasting greatly with the first two with its random lines in a light shade of green. A yellow smiley face adorned the black and white wall, almost as if a bored child had drawn it there.

"Christ…" John whispered as he looked away from the walls and settled his childlike glance on the entirety of the room.

Clutter. Clutter everywhere.

Weird glass tubes and chemicals covered almost every inch of a sturdy wooden table by the right wall, and a variety of papers, magazines and books hid one simple wooden chair from view. He could see the outline of a sofa on the opposite side of the room, though stuff was also thrown on top of it carelessly. As if that wasn't enough, boxes and more boxes of who-knows-what were lined up next to the stairs he had just climbed, and right over there, on the wall to his left, there was an actual human skull. A human skull! Right over the mantelpiece! God, the fireplace itself was a huge mess. He wondered whether he could actually kindle the fire if he put some chunks of wood on top of the massive pile of ash.

Carefully crossing the room, John picked up two small logs and threw them on the ash, right on top of a tiny flickering flame. Still staring at everything in awe and mild disgust, the good doctor sat down on the only comfortable looking seat in the room, a square black leather armchair. Shivering slightly from the cold, he hoped the fire would be enough to warm him up.

Sleep was slowly taking him under, until…

"Oh, dear, that's quite a spell you're under!" The fire said, said, its brown eyes wide.

The fire said.

The. Fire. Said!

"It's going to take some work to break it, I'll tell you."

"Bloody hell!" Was he hallucinating? Maybe the spell had a side effect of some sort after all.

"Shh! No swearing here. It's bad for little Hamish." He was about to ask the fire who was this Hamish, but the talkative flames had a quicker tongue than his. "Poor dear, you can't even talk about your curse now, can you? That's so unfortunate! You must be exhausted by now, and how can anyone really help without knowing what happened?! That woman is so perverse, I'll tell you, you should have seen the stunt she pull—"

"I'm so sorry, but… who are you?" He questioned, voice rough from the lack of water.

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Mrs. Hudson, John." Okay, not only the fire talked, it also knew his name and was, apparently, a lady. A married one.

"Erm…how do you know my name?"

"I know everything about you, dear! Took you long enough, didn't it? No matter though, soon you'll get rid of our curse, we'll get rid of yours and we'll all be free." It cheered.

Feeling more confused than ever and fighting sleep like he fought death after being shot, John forced his eyes to remain open and his mouth to form questions.

"Took me…? I'm sorry, I don't think I understand. You can break my curse?"

"Of course, but only after you break mine. I can't help you while chained to this fireplace." John rubbed his eyes, trying to understand whether this conversation was real or not.

It was no good, however, since his body was relaxing against his will. There was something incredibly soothing to that armchair, he realized. Probably the smell, a mixture of chemicals, some posh perfume and something entirely unique he could not quite place, but seemed familiar somehow. Deciding this was probably some crazy dream his addled mind came up with, John settled on the warm seat and allowed sleep to come.

"A bargain with a magical fire…"

"Oh, no, no! Not a magical fire, dear, I'm under a curse too, the same as you. And you can't call a deal made such a long time ago a bargain. You ought to solve this soon too, John. The way Sherlock behaves, really, it's absurd! It's like he forgets we are tied together and decides that he can just travel to who-knows where as he pleases, leaving me to take care of the entire castle! On my own! It's too much for me, I'm sure you understand."

"Yes, of course…" He whispered, his eyes closing.

"I'm glad you're here, dear. I confess I was starting to worry. Surely it won't take too long now, right John?" The lady-fire asked, but John was no longer listening, the sound of his soft snores filling the quiet room.

"Oh, John…" The lady sighed, burning the logs quickly to warm him through the cold night. He was their hope, and he was finally there. Now it was only a matter of time.

She just hoped it wasn't too late.


End file.
